


In the End, it's a Love Story

by MeikoAtsushi



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Manga Spoilers, One Night Stands, Pining, Sad Backstories, Sakusa can read minds, Slow Burn, it'll be ok
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-16 18:33:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29086899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeikoAtsushi/pseuds/MeikoAtsushi
Summary: It’s one thing to have a mysophobic teammate.It’s another to have a mysophobic teammate with a terrible personality.And it’s something completely else to have a teammate who can read minds.Miya Atsumu experiences this first-hand.Alternatively:Atsumu knew something was strange when Sakusa agreed to sleep with him, even if they were both drunk as hell. For one, he didn't even remember asking the question aloud.I mean, you don't just expect,oh yeah, he can probably read my mind, that's right.You know?
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi, Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 78
Kudos: 327





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written purely for the author's satisfaction.

It’s one thing to have a mysophobic teammate.

It’s another to have a mysophobic teammate with a terrible personality.

And it’s something _completely_ else to have a teammate who can read minds.

Miya Atsumu experiences this first-hand.

When he initially signed the contract with MSBY Black Jackals, he wasn’t too concerned over the lineup. Meian Shougo, Adriah Tomas, Oliver Barnes, Bokuto Koutarou – they were all strong players, as far as he knew. Not that anyone was _weak_ in the pro-league, but some were certainly better than others, and Atsumu aspired to be with the _best_.

“We’ve scouted another member, actually – a player from your generation.”

“Really,” Atsumu drawled, as he scrawled his signature on the papers. He could think of a few individuals – _Hoshiumi Kourai_ , _ah, but is he with the Adlers? Kyoutani Kentarou… he might’ve not been Division 1. Hm,_ “Who?”

“Sakusa Kiyoomi. MVP of the recent Japan National Collegiate Volleyball Championship.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi. _Right, there was him._ Atsumu had met him once or twice when he was in high school, at the Youth Camp with Kageyama and others across the nation. He had flexible wrists and, “The germaphobe.”

Foster chuckled, “We promised to accommodate to his needs. He has improved significantly since he graduated high school as well. Besides, it doesn’t matter as long as he scores points on the court.”

“True.” Atsumu admitted, because frankly, he didn’t give a crap about such details; a spiker who could hit his tosses was all he wanted. “’M done. What now?”

“Welcome to the Jackals, Atsumu. I’ll introduce you to the others.”

It was a steady sail from thereon; Meian was a chill captain, Tomas’s wife was Korean, and Barnes had an adorable, chubby daughter. “She’s cute,” Atsumu cooed at Barnes’s screen – the toddler was sucking on her thumb. Her name was Silver. Bokuto slapped him on the back in greeting, and then proceeded to ask for his opinion on two shirts: a turquoise button-down and a carmine red polo. “I mean,” blinked Atsumu, “what’s it for?”

“I have a date with ‘Kaashi today, but I can’t choose what to wear!” _Kaashi?_ “And he likes both shirts, so I don’t know which one’s better. I’d normally ask Oikawa for advice, but that bastard is in an airplane right now. His timing, I swear.”

“Well,” _Oikawa?_ The _Oikawa?_ “I like the button-down.”

Bokuto glanced at Atsumu’s choice and beamed. “Cool, thanks!”

Those series of interactions summarized Atsumu’s relationship with the team. Even the libero, Inuaki Shion, was a laidback, easygoing guy, who was apparently obsessed with tapioca bubbles and milk tea. The Jackals weren’t overly friendly and intrusive as some teams Atsumu had transferred in and out during college, but they were all skilled, amicable people. Practice was satisfying, and his first three weeks flew by at the speed of light.

And then, Sakusa Kiyoomi arrived.

 _“_ He’s a fuckin’ _scrub.”_

That was Miya Atsumu’s (very subjective) evaluation of Sakusa. Miya Osamu, his twin brother, didn’t sound fazed on the other line. “ _Yeah? How so?”_

“I can’t tell what he’s thinkin’ at all.” It might seem like an unfair, even rather histrionic complaint in the perspective of an outsider. But Atsumu was a setter, and it was his job to observe his spikers and coordinate his plays with them. Sakusa Kiyoomi’s spectrum of emotions was as narrow as the width of a straw, flat and stoic like cardboard. “I ask ‘im how’s that toss, and he’s like, ‘ _low,’_ and nothin’ else. Fine then, I set higher. He ought’ta say somethin’ after that, yeah? I’m not even expectin’ a ‘good job,’ or a ‘nice toss.’”

“ _He probably doesn’t like ya. That’s more common than ya believe, Tsumu.”_

“Personal feelings aside, we’re playin’ _volley_.”

“ _Work it out, then. Wasn’t he always like that? I remember ‘im.”_

There wasn’t much Atsumu could do. Sakusa did not shower with the others, did not change together, and departed as soon as practice was over. While Atsumu wasn’t an especially social person, Sakusa was on another tier of his own. Eventually, he realized that Sakusa did verbalize his needs, when he felt that a toss was too close to the net or off-tempo; he merely refused to express that on the exterior. Talking in a group setting was immensely easier after Hinata Shoyo hopped in, chatting with just about anyone about anything. He even got along with Sakusa, being the only player able to share a conversation with him for nearly half an hour.

“What do ya even talk about with ‘im?” Atsumu queried in the locker rooms, as he pulled on his socks.

Hinata tapped his chin, “About detergent brands. Oh, and how the watermelons and plums at New Takara Mart are on sale for the weekend. They’re ninety-percent off, isn’t that amazing?”

 _Detergent and groceries._ “Sure.”

And that was that. He didn’t wish to befriend Sakusa; they were teammates, and Atsumu was content with the distance between them. In his mind, Sakusa Kiyoomi was a mysophobic outside hitter, his stale personality an unwarranted bonus to the package deal.

Then, everything took a drastic one-eighty.

Before the story is related, he wants to emphasize that it was a mistake.

That’s correct. It was a mistake.

It was after the last game of the season. They won the tournament, and it was a terrific victory, Hinata and Atsumu’s quick wrapping up the rally which felt like a literal eternity. Bokuto was dramatically reciting the game to Akaashi, his boyfriend, over the phone, despite the fact that Akaashi had been present to watch the match from beginning to end. Hinata was chugging down his fifth can of beer; Atsumu noticed that he held his liquor well. Barnes excused himself from the celebration as his daughter was hospitalized with the flu, but the rest were all hanging around the bar, with Meian, Inuaki, and Tomas exchanging some phrases in English at the corner booth.

Atsumu deciding to sit next to Sakusa was a logical step in action that anyone would’ve taken. His other teammates were enjoying themselves, and Atsumu thought some kind of company would be appreciated; it was a celebratory occasion.

When the bartender approached him, he ordered a cocktail on the menu. Sakusa didn’t bother to spare him a glance.

“So, Omi,” he spoke lightly, “what didja think?”

Sakusa hummed, “About?”

“The game.”

“We won.”

“I know, I’m on yer team.”

Pause. “You missed a serve.”

“And ya,” he cranked his brain and replayed the sets mentally. Sakusa did not commit a single error throughout the whole game. “… ‘kay, whatever.” The bartender placed his drink in front of him, and he cleared its contents in one gulp. _Sweet._ He ordered another glass, and they discussed over random matters – or Atsumu did, as he sipped from his series of beverages and babbled on and on, his consciousness slipping away with each passing second. He was absolutely certain about one point, and it was that Sakusa was pretty drunk too, with the aluminum cans and emptied glasses scattered on his side of the bar.

It must’ve been the lighting. Or the alcohol. Probably the alcohol. Because when Atsumu gradually swiveled to Sakusa, who was hunched over the counter, his sleeves rolled up, his hand limp on the marble surface, he instinctively dropped his hand over the other’s, and, _wow. I might wanna fuck him or somethin’._

Alcohol does that to people. Ninety-eight percent of Atsumu’s regrettable decisions was due to overestimating his tolerance.

However, Sakusa then grumbled:

“Go ahead and do it, then.”

And that is why Atsumu is currently in Sakusa Kiyoomi’s bed, naked like he was born yesterday.

_Okay._

He gawks at the ceiling, trying to process and absorb his surroundings. Though the room did not reek of sex and dried sweat, the telltale ache in his lower back was a sufficient explanation of the events from the previous night. Furthermore, Atsumu was not the ‘forget-everything-that-happened-conveniently’ type. He could recall the details vividly,

( _“Omi, fuck, Omi –“_

_His nails dug into Sakusa’s bare shoulders. Sakusa’s moist breath tickled his earlobe, and a wrangled moan escaped Atsumu’s lips, lascivious and feral. “Shit,” Sakusa grunted – the pace was frantic, too fast, too fucking good – “Miya –“)_

_Holy Mother Mary._

He covers his face with his hands, muffling a horrified scream. “Why didja do that,” he glowers at his dick, “there’s a fuckin’ time and place and _person_ to do stuff with, Jesus.” His dick does not offer him a response. Of course. The doorknob twists, and Atsumu almost jumps out of the sheets. Sakusa stands by the entrance, fully clothed. “Uh,” Atsumu brings the blankets over his chest, “g’mornin’.”

“Is porridge alright?”

“Wuh?”

“For breakfast,” Sakusa clarifies, “I don’t know about you, but I feel like trash.”

Atsumu blinks rapidly in succession. Porridge. Breakfast. “Yeah, porridge. I like that.”

“Okay.” An awkward moment of staring. “There’s a guest toothbrush in the bathroom. Feel free to use the shower. Your clothes from last night are on the drawer.”

“Um. Yeah. Thanks.”

Sakusa leaves him to his lonesome and Atsumu carefully tiptoes to the bathroom, hissing when he strains a muscle in his back. “I fuckin’ bottomed?” He whispers, twisting the faucet for hot water. “We _fucked?_ ” He and Sakusa Kiyoomi? No, even before that, “ _Omi’s gay?”_

It’s one electric shock after another.

( _I might wanna fuck him or somethin’.)_

Did he actually say that aloud? Atsumu doesn’t remember being that wasted, but he might as well had been if he slept with Sakusa Kiyoomi. _I mean,_ he squirts shampoo onto his palm in a daze, _he was good, though._ Good didn’t cut it. That was record-breaking sex in Atsumu’s twenty-five years of life. Everything Sakusa did, from how he fondled Atsumu’s sensitive spots, to how he… simply _was –_ it was earth-shattering. If someone descended from the heavens and announced that Sakusa was actually the god of sex, Atsumu would believe them.

When he’s out of the shower with his attire from yesterday, Sakusa gestures at the bowl of rice porridge on the dining table. “I hope you aren’t allergic to eggs, or whatnot.”

“’M not allergic to anythin’. Thanks for the meal.”

They eat in utter silence, the honking of trucks and roars of motorcycle engines resounding from below. Sakusa’s kitchen is as spotless as his locker – even the washcloth hanging from the clips is a speckless white. The egg porridge is tasty, and Atsumu’s hangover subsides.

(“ _Fuck, you’re tight.”_ )

Atsumu chokes.

Sakusa deadpans.

The setter reaches out for a napkin from the box and wipes his mouth. “Uh,” he sniffs once, “about last night.”

Sakusa’s expression doesn’t shift. “We fucked, yes.”

“Okay, I mean, yeah. Glad we’re on the same page. Not that ya had to put it so bluntly, like,” _what am I even sayin’,_ “what now?”

“We actively ignore the problem like any ordinary adult would.”

“Do adults really do that?”

“We wouldn’t have so many films based off the idea otherwise.”

“Fair.” Forgetting the issue. Yeah, that seemed acceptable. Atsumu can do that. “Just checkin’, ‘cause my memories are all fuzzy, but uh, we… ya, er, it was fine, yeah?”

Sakusa shrugs, “We both consented, as far as I’m aware.”

“Great. Consent is sexy. Yeah.” _You should stop talking, me._ “By the way, where the hell didja learn all that?” The man frowns at him. “… Never mind. ‘S not important.” He hasn’t pondered over Sakusa’s sex life prior to this incident, but now he is. _How many people do ya hafta sleep with to reach that level? A thousand?_ Atsumu had his share of men (and women, when he was an uninformed teenager in puberty), but had never encountered anyone like that.

He assists Sakusa with the dishes and replies to his brother’s messages once he’s finished. “I’ll head off home. Thanks for lettin’ me stay.”

“I didn’t have a choice, but sure.”

 _Does he have a comeback for everythin’ I say,_ “One last question.” Sakusa acknowledges him with a curt nod. “Did I actually… vocalize that?”

“What?”

“Y’know,” he trails off, “that I wanted to fuck ya. ‘Cause I, I don’t think… at least I don’t remember,” Sakusa’s eyes are glued to him dispassionately. “Maybe I did.”

The spiker leans against his doorframe, his arms crossed. “You didn’t.”

“Huh?”

Sakusa snorts. “I’m kidding.”

 _Oh._ “How was I supposed to know? Ya never joke.”

“That was a joke.” Sakusa curls his fingers around the door handle, “I’ll see you at practice.” And the placard, ‘1202,’ replaces Sakusa’s face. Atsumu stands there for a couple seconds, frozen. He strides over to the elevator and punches the ‘down’ button, his head simultaneously flooded and totally blank.

( _“You really like it when I touch you there, huh.”)_

“ _Save me,”_ he groans, knocking his skull into a wall.

He had the most mind-blowing sex of the century with Sakusa Kiyoomi.

(And you know, we’ve all seen this repertoire. We’re more than aware how this will end. That’s right, this is a love story. It’s a trite one.

Or, as the teens from the early 2010’s would claim: “It’s still a better love story than Twilight.”

Whatever. It’s a love story anyway.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LMAO I was not expecting so many people to subscribe to this fic as this is completely self-indulgent, but here we are. I'd make my chapters longer if I were actually serious about the plot, but, well. It's too bad.

“Rin, bring out the cake!”

“Cake?” One second. Two seconds. “Oh, the cake, of course.”

“It’s a celebration.”

“It’s _not_ a celebration, Samu.”

“It’s a fuckin’ celebration for ya losin’ yer virginity.”

“I lost my virginity _eight_ years ago.”

“Hah, caught ya, ya told me ya lost yer virginity when ya turned twenty!”

“My _gay_ virginity!”

“Virginity, gay virginity – it’s all the same, ya don’t get reborn when ya have yer gay awakening, Tsumu.”

Suna regresses with a packet of Haribo gummy bears and tosses it towards Atsumu. “Your cake.”

“These are gummy bears.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective.” Suna rips the package and pops a lemon-flavored gummy into his mouth. “See, think about it. You didn’t have a one-night stand with Sakusa Kiyoomi, you had the most phenomenal sex of your life with someone who just _coincidentally_ happened to be your teammate.”

“He told me to _forget_ about it. How do ya _forget_ about it, like, poof?” Atsumu gestures with his hands.

Osamu shapes an onigiri into a triangle and tops it with pickled radish. “Well, we aren’t high schoolers who fancy about our first night anymore. Yer an adult, so ya can forget about it with some more booze and more sex. Ah, wait, but if ya had sex with a sex _god_ , then ya might wanna wait. Give it a month or two.”

“’kay, but is that what a _responsible_ adult would do?”

“One,” Suna lifts a finger, “a responsible adult wouldn’t get _that_ wasted in the first place,” one combo to Miya Atsumu, “two, I believe we have established since your coming-of-age ceremony that you’re never going to act like a full-fledged adult,” two combos, “and lastly, you can’t be a responsible adult if you don’t have that foundation to be an adult, so in conclusion, you don’t have to be concerned over what a responsible adult would ever do.”

Critical hit, Player Miya Atsumu is knocked out, Suna Rintarou wins!

“… Whose side are ya guys on?”

“I mean,” Osamu chomps a large bite out of a warm salmon rice ball (which is technically a product, but his shop, his rules), “ya had a superb night, yeah? Doesn’t seem like a dilemma to me. Yer problem is literally that ya had a good fuck with yer teammate. How rich.”

“ _Listen_ ,” Atsumu groans, “imagine fuckin’ a member on yer team.”

His twin juts his chin at Suna. “Here he is.”

Suna clears his throat theatrically, “Hello, I was the member who was fucked by your brother on our high school team.”

 _Ugh._ “Ya’ll are absolutely gross.”

“We had safe, consensual, and sanitary sex, mind ya. There were condoms, not an ounce of alcohol involved, and a poignant, romantic, ‘can I put my dick in ya’ moment. None of yer drunk ‘wow, I might wanna fuck ‘im’ stuff.”

“I didn’t _say_ it, though.”

Osamu huffs. “Sure, so there was telepathic communication. Congratulations, even we haven’t accomplished that yet.”

“Stop playin’, ‘m serious! Ya know I can be nasty when I’m shitfaced but I always, always, remember everythin’. And Omi said he was kiddin’ around, but I’m certain I didn’t utter crap. Like, yeah, I thought it, but my lips didn’t move, I swear!”

“That makes zero sense.”

“It’s true, c’mon, Samu. ‘M awful at lyin’ – am I lyin’ right now?”

His brother sighs. “Yeah, but then what? Maybe ya had it written all over yer face, and the dude’s just super observant. Yer not particularly talented when it comes to hidin’ yer feelings.”

“It was a _fleetin’_ thought, like, ‘ _I wonder if there’s tuna for dinner today,’_ that kinda thing!”

“Actually,” Suna interjects, scrolling through his phone, “he might be Gifted.”

“Gifted?” Atsumu recalls seeing that term in a documentary. “Isn’t that a one-in-a-hundred-million occurrence?”

To be Gifted – it meant the individual was inherited a recessive gene which inexplicably, arbitrarily mutated during completion of the reproductive processes, causing the infant to possess inhuman abilities, typically an abnormally heightened version of the five senses. The scientific mechanism behind it remained a mystery, and up until the mid-twentieth century, it was regarded as an incurable disease; many throughout history deemed those who were Gifted as witches or sorcerers, and it was common practice to execute them publicly. As a result, Gifted beings were beyond rare in the present day – they were practically nonexistent, like an extinct species. Due to ethical reasons, researchers were now banned from experimenting with Gifted subjects, and they were becoming less and less known as generations passed.

Suna shrugs. “I’m suggesting a possibility. Osamu’s theory is more likely.”

“Yeah, accordin’ to Google,” Osamu peers at his screen, “there are twelve recorded Gifted beings alive in Japan, as of 2021. Compare that probability to Sakusa-san just bein’ real awesome at decipherin’ yer facial expressions.”

They both had valid remarks. Atsumu pouted. “Fine. Be that way.”

“What’s the big deal? As far as the rumors go, ya had a fling with Kageyama Tobio from the Adlers and ya didn’t care about that.”

“That was,” he runs his nails through his hair in exasperation. “We _made out,_ wasn’t even close to sex. It was experimental and,” he can’t go further because it’s not his story to tell. _How rumors blow out of proportion, I’m so fuckin’ sick of ‘em._ “It wasn’t like that. Fundamentally disparate, ya hear me?”

“Sure, but ya fooled around plenty when ya were in college. Also in high school, with the cute chicks on campus. Remember that time when the math teacher found ya in the chem lab –“

“ _The past is in the past_.”

“Let it _gooo_ ,” Suna sings monotonously. Atsumu glares daggers at him. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

“Ya guys should never give advice.”

“That’s why I own an onigiri shop and Rin an athlete. We would’ve been counselors if we had a knack for offerin’ our wisdom.”

“I despise how yer always right.”

Osamu holds up his onigiri proudly. “Carbs, glucose, vitamins – nutrients are healthy for the brain. Maybe ya should have some. Promote yer lovely little brother’s store for once.”

“Yer business thrives, Samu, what more do ya want?”

“Oh, look, a customer.” Said brother rises from his seat, and then glances at Atsumu with disinterest. “For ya to get out, maybe. Don’t ya have practice?”

“I’m signin’ for a divorce.”

“We’re twins, it doesn’t work like that.”

“We’re _divorced_.”

To be frank, Atsumu doesn’t mind a whole lot.

Suna and Osamu are correct; he’s had more casual relationships than he can count, although he ensured that his private life and his professional career were separated. He could’ve fucked Hinata, Bokuto, or whoever on the Jackals, and he wouldn’t have been surprised. Therefore, the fact that he had sex with Sakusa doesn’t shock him to the core – nothing like that. It’s more on _how_ it happened.

Atsumu did not speak. Whether others were convinced didn’t matter; he _knew._ And even when the endeavor unfolded, Atsumu never informed Sakusa where he specifically liked to be touched, and yet Sakusa nailed every single one of them, like he fucked Atsumu every hour of the day. He read him like an open book, basically. And that’s, well, naturally _unsettling._ Disconcerting. Incredible sex was fine, but that only applied when the partner was a human. Sexual intercourse with Sakusa Kiyoomi was like fucking an extremely high-tech AI robot where you could customize your preferences as well as the appearance of the machine, which conveniently had the option, ‘Sakusa Kiyoomi.’

Atsumu assumes it’s not the same for everyone, but personally, he finds that mildly unnerving.

“Tsumu-Tsumu?”

“Huh?”

“I’ve called your name thrice,” Bokuto states, catching and throwing a volleyball singlehandedly, “mind setting for me a bit? I feel like practicing my straights today.”

“Oh, yeah. Sure. Anyone blockin’?”

“Me, me! I can block!” Hinata dashes into the court, “Oh, Sakusa-san! Do you want to join?”

Atsumu snaps towards Sakusa, who disposes his mask in the rubbish bin. “No, I’ll be doing serves. My aim was somewhat lackluster in the last match.”

Bokuto blinks, “You mean the one you got three service aces in a row?”

“Two of those three were almost caught by the libero.” With that, Sakusa jogs off to another court. Bokuto mutters something about how he only had one no-touch ace.

“Don’t mind, Bokuto-san, I didn’t get any of those!”

 _Well, ya also scored eighteen points on yer own in two sets, but okay._ “Am I tossin’ to ya or nah, Koutarou?”

“Yeah, let’s do it!”

He sets to Bokuto, one of their managers refilling and retrieving the balls scattered around the area hurriedly on the sidelines. Hinata receives and defends – he has made impressive strides since high school. Bokuto’s inner straights are fantastic, too. Atsumu licks his lips, shuddering at the adrenaline coursing through his vessels. ‘The banquet of the beasts,’ indeed.

Abruptly, a satisfying ‘slam’ reverberates through the gym. Atsumu notices that the sound came from Sakusa – “Wow, that’s a definite no-touch ace, _”_ Hinata says in awe – Sakusa clenches and unclenches his hands.

His hand.

Atsumu put his hand on Sakusa’s at the bar. Then he thought, and Sakusa responded to his thoughts.

“ _A-tsumu,”_ he jumps at Bokuto’s whining, “another toss?”

“Y-yeah,” _stop being ridiculous, there’s no way._ He sets the ball as it forms a flawless parabola in the air. Bokuto soars and swings his arm. _But what if,_ “nice course.”

They play a three-on-three in the afternoon, and Sakusa makes a beeline for the showers once they’re done. Atsumu stares at the man as he briskly trudges into the locker rooms. Had he ever come into physical contact with Sakusa Kiyoomi prior to that night? Sakusa didn’t do high-fives, fist bumps, chest pumps – he might’ve put his palm over Atsumu’s uniform when they huddled together in a group before a game, but that wasn’t skin-to-skin contact.

 _So, what if it’s skin-to-skin contact?_ He snorts to himself, shaking his head. _This ain’t some fictional bullshit._

( _Okay, but listen Atsumu, what if -)_

“Shut up, brain,” he whispers, “yer not wanted.”

( _I beg to differ.)_

“Shut up.”

In the shower stall, he ruminates on what Suna suggested. A Gifted – really? Japan has a population over a hundred million. Twelve in a hundred million is an incredulous percentage. Atsumu isn’t even aware as to what being Gifted even means – heightened senses? He’s watched a Ted talk of a Gifted woman on YouTube who had a sharp sense of taste; she was the most sought-after individual by Michelin star chefs, nutrition science experts, so on and so forth. _‘I can taste chemicals, and that enables me to formulate chemical reactions in my head regarding what ingredients were used, what can potentially be added or eliminated to perfect the dish… it’s simply marvelous. I love who I am,’_ is the only line Atsumu can recall from the clip. She was Australian or something.

 _I’m overthinking this._ It might as well have been a lucky guess. Sakusa is pretty accurate when it comes to understanding other players’ thought processes, like Suna, or that blonde spectacles from the Frogs – Tsukishima, yes. _Nah, but… too lucky, isn’t it?_

He heaves a sigh and dries himself with a towel. Is there a purpose in pondering over this issue? Maybe Sakusa is clairvoyant, so what? There are more than seven billion inhabitants alone on this planet, there can be one or two people like that.

( _Really?)_

After changing into his jersey and sweatpants, he exits the stall. Everyone appears to have left, as all the other stalls are unoccupied. Sakusa is sitting on a bench by the lockers, tying his shoelace. He’s wearing sports gloves. Atsumu presumed they were for his hygiene obsession thing, or for protecting his hands before, but, “Hey, Omi.”

Sakusa hums.

“Yer serves were good.”

“Practice yours.”

“I _do_.” _Can’t he accept a compliment like an ordinary person,_ he steals a glimpse at Sakusa’s hands, which are swiftly moving to tie a ribbon for his sneakers. _Stop. Don’t think. Do not think._

Atsumu is downright disastrous when it comes to obeying commands. Even those of his own.

“Uh, Omi?”

“Hm.”

“This might sound creepy,” Sakusa scowls in distaste, “but I promise ‘s nothin’ like that. Like, it’s a request. I’ll be quick. Faster than light, like a flash. Seriously.” The other doesn’t seem persuaded or too taken, but his silence implies that Atsumu can continue. “Can I hold yer hand?”

Sakusa knits his brows together. He looks at his gloved hand, and then extends it to Atsumu, his scowl intact.

“No, like, yer bare hand.”

The spiker drops his arm. “Why?”

 _Should’ve created an excuse before I pulled this, damn it._ “… Team spirit?”

“Building team spirit through hand holding,” enunciates Sakusa, venom trailing after each syllable.

“Yeah, ‘s very…” he can’t come up with a suitable vocab. “I’m clean, I showered. Just, three- no, five seconds. Five. No more. I don’t even need to hold it, actually – what about placing my pinky on yer palm? That’ll do.”

“I don’t like your ideas.” Sakusa grumbles, but takes off the glove on his left hand. He uncurls his fist for Atsumu. His skin is the color of early February snow, tinged with the vaguest pink of spring.

Five seconds.

Atsumu inhales, and tentatively puts his pinky on Sakusa’s palm.

And he thinks with all his might:

_‘Yer an idiot.’_

One.

‘ _Yer serves fuckin’ suck.’_

Two.

_‘Yer the scrubbiest scrub, ya should be in the Guinness Records.’_

Three.

Sakusa is staring at him – he doesn’t display any signs of emotion, reaction.

_‘Yer fingers are kinda long.’_

Four.

_‘I really like yer dick.’_

Sakusa blinks.

Five.

“Are you finished?” He reaches out for the stray glove, and Atsumu sniffs. Great. His overthinking tendencies are confirmed. “I hope you never ask me to do that again.”

 _It’s not like I wanted to._ “Yeah, no worries. See ya.”

The door shuts as Sakusa leaves.

( _Maybe you should get him drunk next time. That might do the trick.)_

“Brain,” he murmurs, “yer a menace.”

Sakusa Kiyoomi gazes at the red traffic lights beside the crossroad.

(‘ _I really like yer dick.’_ )

He snorts beneath his mask and proceeds to walk across the road.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit that I don't even have a vaguest plot for this fic, other than the character backstories. I come up with these chapters in twenty minutes as I write (lmao). Regardless, I'm thankful of everyone who's following along with this story! 
> 
> Enjoy :D

Three random facts about Miya Atsumu:

One, he has slept with the crankiest member on the team. He liked it.

Two, it’s ridiculously easy to pique his interest.

Three, unless it’s mindbogglingly fascinating, though, he’d lose that interest within the next three minutes.

Like kindergartners, for example – you can show them a magic trick and they’d love it for a while, but keep doing it and they’ll be bored out of their minds. That’s Miya Atsumu in a nutshell. A kindergartner. A one-ninety giant who is a national-level player with the mental age of a six-year-old.

Anyway, we went on a tangent, but that’s all to say this – Miya Atsumu eventually moved on from the Sakusa Accident. No, he did not _forget_ about it, hence the capitalization, but he did move on. Because to be perfectly candid, he had better things to do. He had a career where he was paid for scoring points unlike high school, and he had to sustain his exorbitant eating habits. He couldn’t cling to Sakusa and pester him over that single night, because hell, they were _adults_ and so what if adults played around once in a while? Sure, he still doesn’t know how Sakusa heard his thoughts at the bar, but they lived in a world where people proclaimed to see the supernatural or got married with trains.

He _does_ reflect over that night when he can’t get it up before bed with gay porn. It’s only happened _once,_ mind you. To him, Sakusa persisted to be the irritable spiker who comported himself like a block of concrete. Approximately three months fly by, and they have more games, more practice matches. Neither of them sits next to each other when they celebrate the following victories. It’s half-intentional and half-thoughtless on Atsumu’s part, although he doesn’t know whether that’s the case for Sakusa.

In January, they have a tournament in the north, all the way in Akita.

It was awful timing.

“ _Geez, yer such a worrywart, Tsumu. I’ll be kickin’ and fine!”_

Atsumu glances at the bus, ensuring that it hasn’t left, and barks into the phone, “It’s _surgery_ , ma, ‘course I worry! What kinda kid doesn’t worry over their ma gettin’ a damned surgery?!”

“ _’S just a teeny-tiny tumor, goodness gracious – don’t be so dramatic! Ya get all those drama genes from yer pa, I swear. Where’s my DNA?”_

“ _Maaaaaaa_ ,” Atsumu stomps his feet impatiently, “Yer feelin’ alright, yeah? The doctors are treatin’ ya good?”

He can _feel_ her eyeroll from miles away, “ _They’re doctors, Tsumu, ‘m sure they know what they’re doin’. They ain’t studyin’ for a med degree to learn nothin’ outta it. Besides, Samu’s here with me, doin’ a lot better than ya in the filial piety department, if ya ask me.”_

“’M _sorry,_ I’d go but today’s the final match, they can’t pitch in the reserve setter for all the sets. I’ll fly to Hyogo once it’s done, yeah? Don’t be all sick when I get there; ya better be kickin’ like ya said ya would be.”

_“Of course, ya promised to buy me a Louis Vuitton purse next week! Can’t miss that, can I?”_

Atsumu smiles at that. He did inherit his mother’s penchant for luxurious accessories and objects. “I’ll buy ya fifty.”

_“Two will do.”_

“Roger that.” He lowers his voice into a murmur, “I love ya, ma.”

“ _I love ya too. Don’t ya dare lose that game.”_

When he hangs up, there’s a message from Osamu about the operating surgeon’s contact and information, a description of the surgery, and estimated elapse time. Atsumu inhales, and then exhales, massaging his temples. It was a small tumor, _almost_ negligible in size. Almost. His father rang him up yesterday when he was at the hotel, jogging around the hotel’s recreation space. “ _Osamu’s gonna be comin’, closin’ up his store, so don’t fuss.”_ Is what his father said verbatim, anxiety evident in his tone.

If he can simply _be_ there, he wouldn’t be this apprehensive. But he’s not, and he has no clue how his mother’s actually doing. It’s distressful.

“Atsumu-san!” Hinata pokes his head into his periphery. “The bus is leaving in two!”

“Yeah, let’s go.”

The tangerine player stares at him keenly, “Are you okay?”

“Huh?”

“No, you’re a little pale. I guess it _is_ freezing up here in Akita. It’s negative twelve degrees Celsius outside!”

“Oh, yeah,” Atsumu nods a little too vigorously, “yeah, definitely. Super cold.” They aboard the bus together – Atsumu plops down next to Hinata, to distract himself from his mother’s operation. To his disappointment, he finds himself calculating how long it would take to catch a flight from Akita to Hyogo, then to the hospital, which was located in a separate city, and, _concentrate on the game. Concentrate on the fucking game, Miya Atsumu._

The cameramen and reporters swarm them as they step into the gymnasium – _“Miya-senshuu, with what purpose or mindset are you participating in the final match today,”_ _“Bokuto-senshuu, there was a recent scandal about your significant other, is it true that you’re homosexual?” “Inuaki-senshuu, some analysts and fans are wondering if you’ve been in a slump nowadays, with how your total points accumulated in each game have been showing a decreasing trend…”_

Atsumu notices how Sakusa straight-out scowls at all of them.

They change, and once they’re on the court after a couple minutes, the Coach gathers them at the benches and goes through their strategy again. Meian offers some advice and insight he’s gained in their previous match, and everyone listens attentively. In the corner of Atsumu’s brain, there’s the image of his mother on a hospital bed, chatting to Osamu as she wore a dimpled smile. _It’s going to be okay._

_It has to be okay._

The referee blows the whistle, and the first server in their rotation, Tomas, slams the ball to the opposite side.

The mantra is effective for the initial two sets, where the Jackals take the first and their opponents the second. Then, it abruptly skids to a halt, like a truck screeching violently as the driver stepped on the brakes. It could’ve been the sheer tenacity he sensed from the other players, the exhaustion that gradually aggregated within Atsumu both physically and mentally for competing against powerful teams for a week and a half, or that the other team’s pinch server constantly aimed at him – the setter – to mess up their dynamic and coordination.

“Timeout!”

They file back to the benches and Atsumu snatches a Pocari their manager distributes. “You’re off, Atsumu.” Meian remarks as it is, no sugarcoating whatsoever. “We’re only on the second set.”

“I know, I know.” He grits back, gulping down the sports drink. “I’ll refocus.”

The team regards him with unease. Sakusa suddenly appears and Atsumu flinches – but Sakusa’s elbow only grazes Atsumu’s arm as he reaches for his personal bottle of water. Then, something about Sakusa shifts – he blinks, straightens his posture, doesn’t drink his water, and instead fixates his gaze on Atsumu, his expression unreadable. Atsumu snarls, “If yer gonna yap ‘bout how my toss was close to the net, I fuckin’ know.”

Sakusa doesn’t respond, and the whistle is blown. They walk back to the court.

“Miya,” Atsumu turns to Sakusa as they adjust their stance for a serve receive. “The faster you get yourself together, the faster you can leave.”

Atsumu goes rigid. He suppresses the urge to exclaim, ‘w _hat?’_ as the countdown for the serve begins.

_The faster you get yourself together, the faster you can leave._

It hits him like a pile of bricks, a bucket of iced water.

It’s sound logic. Simple. Easy to understand.

He licks his lip.

The passage of time, his surroundings, the scoreboard – everything is a blob from thereon. _Be quick, quick, quick,_ is all that flashes like an alarm in his mind, as he tosses, receives, serves, scoring one solid point after another. “ _Miya Atsumu is on a roll!”_ Someone cheers, but he’s designing his next move with Bokuto. A synchronized attack, perhaps – and a B-quick with Sakusa.

In the next hour, the game is settled with a final score of 3-1.

The reporters flood into the gym afterward. Atsumu wades through the crowd, swallowing the burning desire to holler at them to just _shut the fuck up,_ someone’s life was on the line here. He hoped there was a flight soon, because he had to catch a cab to the airport, then navigate his way to the hospital where his mother was, “ _No,_ I’m not takin’ questions, piss off.” If tomorrow’s Japan Sports headlines is ‘ _Miya Atsumu, verbal abuse towards reporter,’_ then whatever. He doesn’t give a shit about that.

He rips off his uniform and pulls on his parka, rummaging through his luggage for his phone.

Right then, from behind him:

“There’s a flight to Hyogo in forty minutes. The airport is a ten-minute drive from here. The cab should arrive in four minutes at gate seven. You should run.”

Atsumu whips around to see Sakusa Kiyoomi standing there, presenting the airport’s homepage screen on his device. A flight in forty minutes. “Omi,” he mumbles, stunned, “how –?

“Three minutes.” Sakusa grunts, “The cab. Gate seven.”

He stalls, but eventually snaps out of it and grabs his belongings. “Okay. Thanks. A lot.”

Sakusa shrugs and shuffles back to where the locker rooms are. Atsumu realizes that the guy hasn’t even taken off his uniform, drenched in sweat.

_Huh._

He sprints to gate seven – the cab is there, waiting for him.

“Sakusa Kiyoomi-san, yes?” The driver confirms, and Atsumu has another short mental stumble at that.

“Uh, yes. That’s me. To the airport, please.”

It’s a blur, to how he lands in Hyogo, rushes to Osaka, and crashes into his mother’s room. She’s sleeping peacefully on her bed, and Osamu shushes him along with their father. Atsumu is on the verge of breaking into tears as he loses his balance and crumples to the floor. “’S just a pipsqueak tumor, drama queen,” Osamu sighs, but relief is crystal clear in how he smiles at his brother.

“Shut it, ‘s not like yer ma was dyin’.”

“We’re from the same ma, what the actual fuck.”

“Osamu, language.” Their father chastises, but it’s good-natured.

They decide to sleep on the guest mattresses and the couch in their mother’s room (VIP and everything, perks of being a popular athlete). As Atsumu washes his face in the bathroom, he recalls what Sakusa told him earlier in the day.

_The faster you get yourself together, the faster you can leave._

Anyone else would’ve said, ‘it’ll be alright.’ Atsumu isn’t certain how he appeared or what kind of expression he was making, but how Sakusa phrased it – it was as if he _knew why_ Atsumu was feeling jittery. Not only that, but he also searched for the flights available to Hyogo and hauled a cab for him directly to the airport. That was not an ‘if’ anymore – Sakusa knew, period.

The obvious question is – how?

_(“Go ahead and do it, then.”)_

A chill crawls down his spine.

 _The similarity of then and today, what is it?_ He didn’t converse with Sakusa at all, with the exception during the match. They didn’t even sit together in the bus. He re-immerses himself into his memories. _There was a timeout. I got my drink. And then Omi was next to me, and he,_ “Elbow.” He says aloud, and the echo of ‘elbow’ bounces off the bathroom tiles.

( _“He might be Gifted.”)_

His breath hitches.

Twelve in a hundred million.

It’s unlikely, but not impossible. And there is no alternative explanation to this. It’s conclusive.

Sakusa Kiyoomi can read minds.

###

“What’s up?”

Sakusa Kiyoomi sinks into the comforts of the sofa. Komori Motoya, his cousin, carries a tray of coffee and snacks to the living room. Sakusa throws an arm over his forehead.

“Kiyoomi, you’re scaring me.”

An exhale.

“You didn’t… murder someone, did you? This isn’t about anything illegal?”

He wrinkles his nose.

“… Did you?”

Sakusa cracks open an eye, “No.”

“Oh, yeah, then what’s up?”

“I,” his throat is arid. “Read a mind.”

Motoya puts Sakusa’s no-sugar-no-milk coffee on the table. “That happens sometimes, it’s inevitable. You can’t always control who you bump into. That’s what the concept of accidents are about.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“That’s not…” his cousin repeats after him, and then his pupils dilate, “oh. _Oh._ Holy shit. You _told_ them. Oh my god, you _told_ them about it. Jesus. Oh no. Oh god.” Motoya rushes for his phone and furiously scrolls through the sports headlines.

“Not the media.”

“Yeah, I can see that. Then, I mean… wait, who was it? Why the hell did you- weren’t you wearing your gloves? Unless it was during a game and you read your teammate’s mind.” Sakusa presses his lips together. “It was a teammate. Huh. Who?”

He reluctantly mumbles, “Miya Atsumu.”

“Miya Atsumu. That’s… hard to say. It was by mistake, wasn’t it? You blurted it out or whatever.”

Sakusa counters that with silence.

“It was _not_ a mistake. You were aware of what you were getting yourself into. Holy crap, Kiyoomi, what’s possessed you?”

He sucks on his teeth.

(‘ _Ma, ma, ma, ma, fuck, what if she dies, what if she stops breathing when I get there, what if the surgery goes horribly wrong, what if I can’t get there by tonight, what if, what if what if what if –‘)_

“I don’t know.” Atsumu’s dismayed, frustrated frown clouds his vision, Atsumu’s fear pulsating through his veins as they brushed against each other. He remembers how Atsumu stared at him with his unzipped coat and messy hair, like he couldn’t believe any of this was real.

( _“Omi, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me –“)_

Sakusa grinds his teeth.

“I don’t know.”


	4. Chapter 4

Sakusa successfully avoids him for a week and a half.

Which is remarkable, considering that they’re on the same team. They meet six days a week, for nearly twelve hours of practice. Sakusa purposefully arrives ten minutes before practice begins so that Atsumu doesn’t have the leisure to talk to him, and speed-walks into the showers when practice is over. Atsumu can’t catch up to him as Hinata or Bokuto dashes to him about how his tosses were, how they’d like them tomorrow, with new moves they’d like to try out as well. And naturally, it’s career before curiosity, so Atsumu lets Sakusa off the hook.

And then, Friday comes. Friday, where Atsumu decides that something has to be done.

Sakusa is usually the fastest one to enter the shower stalls and the latest to exit. Nowadays, though, his duration had been so sporadic that Atsumu could never estimate his times.

So, Atsumu waits instead.

“What’re you doing, Atsumu?” Inuaki inquires when he sees Atsumu seated on the bench, drying himself off with a towel, unchanged. “You stink, you know.”

“Ouch, Wan-san.” He grins, “I’m waitin’. Don’t mind me.”

Inuaki glimpses at the last open stall, and then at Atsumu, but shrugs and goes inside with his clothes. Hinata and Bokuto walk out simultaneously, and both gesture at Atsumu to go in, but he shakes his head and provides a half-assed excuse. They both function with one brain cell, so they eat up his nonsensical explanation for not showering. Meian, Tomas, and the others follow suit, and bid their farewells to Atsumu.

When Sakusa steps out of his stall, steam slithering out with him, Atsumu grumbles, “Finally.”

Sakusa narrows his eyes. “You waited?”

“Had to, ‘cause ya weren’t givin’ me an alternative. Were ya havin’ a British tea party in there?”

“As if.”

A tense silence trickles into the atmosphere. Atsumu stares at Sakusa, and the latter tongues his cheek. Atsumu has pondered over how to start this conversation since he’s regressed from Osaka. What would you even say? _Hey, so, you can read minds, right? Are you telepathic? How the hell does it work? Are you fucking Gifted?_ They all sound incredulous. “Am I goin’ to hafta ask ya, or are ya willin’ to tell me ‘bout it?”

Sakusa tugs on his towel hanging from his neck. The towel claps against the man’s thigh. “Would you believe me if I said it was a pure coincidence?”

“If it were just the night we fucked, yeah. Last week, though? Nah.”

“Thought so.”

Atsumu is careful when he murmurs, “… Are ya, uh…”

“I’m Gifted, yes.”

Twelve in a hundred million.

Sakusa Kiyoomi is one of twelve. Atsumu honestly struggles to believe it. “’Kay. Gifted.”

Said Gifted sighs. “I’m sorry for that day. I let it happen. I wasn’t supposed to, but, well.”

“What? Wasn’t supposed to what?”

“I wasn’t supposed to read your mind,” grunts Sakusa. The confirmation is somehow more astounding than the ‘I’m Gifted’ revelation, although they’re practically identical statements. “I read it with the intent to read. I usually don’t do that. I haven’t done anything remotely like it since middle school, and that was for an emergency situation, where the 119 needed an unidentifiable patient’s address.”

Atsumu thinks about the gloves, the excessive layer of clothes, and the aversion to crowds Sakusa has presented throughout his time at the Jackals. “Wait, then yer not mysophobic?”

“No, I am.”

“Oh.”

“It’s a psychological issue.” Sakusa appears slightly drained from discussing this matter. “Either way, I apologize.”

Sakusa apologizing isn’t how he pictured this circumstance, but it’s not what Atsumu wants. “Why didja?”

“What did I what?”

“Read my mind.” Atsumu clarifies, “It was durin’ the timeout, wasn’t it? When ya touched me with yer elbow.”

“Because,” Sakusa doesn’t speak for a few seconds. His damp curls are matted to his forehead. “I thought you were ill. You weren’t only distracted but anguished. I could… _sense_ it. Physical contact isn’t a necessity unless I want to hear exact thoughts – within a certain radius, I can detect general emotions, conditions, mental states. You were more than just ‘ _off’_ that game.”

It’s surreal, all these Gifted abilities crap, something straight out of the Wikipedia page Atsumu perused over the weekend. “Even so, ya didn’t hafta do all that for me. I mean, I’m thankful, but like, ya didn’t want anyone to know, right?”

Sakusa snorts. “The average person doesn’t want to have their mind involuntarily read, Miya. It’s an invasion of privacy, and I take measures to respect that.”

“Well, ‘s not like there’s anythin’ ya can do ‘bout it. Ya can’t live without touchin’ someone forever, unless ya live under a rock.”

“People aren’t as understanding as you think.” Sakusa’s answer shuts Atsumu up. “I wouldn’t be so circumspect if my Gift revolved around taste or smell – even hearing or sight.” Taste – that was what the woman from the Ted Talk had. Sakusa’s Gift is about his sense of touch. “It’s just my wicked luck that I landed with this ability.”

Atsumu twists his lips pensively. “… Can I ask more questions?”

Sakusa crinkles his nose at him in disgust. “If you shower.”

“On it.”

Atsumu reaps much more information about the Gifted from Sakusa than the Internet. It’s like researching all about a unicorn versus encountering a unicorn in reality. There’s a basic but crucial difference.

There were less than seven hundred Gifted humans worldwide, and the ratio wasn’t consistent from country to country – it depended on a random mutation of the recessive gene, after all. Abilities branched from the concept of the five senses, but no ability was a carbon copy of the other; the sense of sight, for example (also the most common). Someone could see through objects, another saw the chemical composition of their subject, and one could magnify an object, zooming in or even out as they pleased.

“The majority of these powers aren’t destructive and don’t have dire consequences. The users are able to embrace their ability for what it is, and they often share the fact that they are Gifted with their acquaintances.” Sakusa says as they wander around the park by the gym. “I’m not like that.”

“Because ya can read minds?”

“Because I can’t control my ability,” corrects Sakusa. “There are controllable and uncontrollable Gifts. There are cases where they gain more autonomy over it during adolescent years, but it’s so rare that it’s insignificant. I’ve never been able to, and I accepted that for what it was. It’s not like they have many individuals with the derivate of the sense of touch, anyway – insufficient data.”

“Not many are alive?”

“Around forty, perhaps, including myself. I’m quite certain that I’m the youngest.”

Forty amongst less than seven hundred, one of twelve in Japan, and the youngest of the niche group? Atsumu is blown away. They claim that if everyone’s special, that equates to nobody being special, but this is damned ‘special’ at its finest. “So ya had it since ya were a chub.”

“Yes. That’s how it is – there is no development involved.”

“How does it, uh, I mean yer Gift – how does it work?”

Sakusa shrugs, “There must be an elaborate scientific explication for it. All I learned is that it’s a transmittance of emotions – touch, in essence, is anything tangible, which also inputs something as minute as dust particles into the equation. When I’m not in contact, I can only feel it vaguely through the air. When I touch the person, I can understand what they’re thinking. It’s… challenging to describe.”

“Heh.”

He is attempting to wrap his brain around the idea, but frankly, Atsumu’s grades were devastating in high school. “I mean, that must be hard. For ya. What if ya read somethin’ ya don’t wanna know?”

Sakusa rolls his eyes at that. “Don’t mention it. I accidentally brushed Bokuto’s arm when he had a date with Akaashi-san.”

“Oh, _no_.”

“Oh, no, indeed.”

“Well, hey,” Atsumu clears his throat, “I don’t mind that much. I don’t really think, anyway. Not a whole lot. At least when I’m workin’.”

“Really,” Sakusa’s brow quirks, “because you were screaming in your head that night we slept together. Quite promiscuously.”

_Oh._

_Oh, shit._

_(Kiss me, fuck me, wreck me, roll yer fuckin’ tongue around my head, make me feel good, I’ll do anythin’, absolutely_ anything _, just hit my prostrate till I’m sore, till I can’t fuckin’ walk t’morrow morn, pump my cock, fuck, fuck, Omi, Omi, Omi, Omi, Omi -)_

“Oh, my fuckin’ _god_.”

Sakusa shoots him a smug smirk.

“ _Forget that.”_

“It’s convenient that I never had to ask you to be more vocal.”

“Ya were touchin’ me _the whole time,_ ‘course ya didn’t hafta!” He wants to die. He can die right now. He probably should. He most definitely will. Someone hand him a gun already.

“It’s fine – I got your message nice and clear. That you like my dick.”

( _I really like yer dick.)_

Screw it all.

“Forget everythin’. _Now._ ”

“I have unfailing memory.”

Atsumu has the urge to cry. “Please? Do ya like cherries? Please with a cherry on top?”

“I don’t like cherries.”

“With an umeboshi on top?”

“Where’s the umeboshi? I don’t see one.”

“I _hate_ ya.”

“The sex aside, you were the one who touched me. Out of your volition. That was not my fault.”

“If ya just told me the truth after we fucked,” Atsumu freezes and ruminates on how that would’ve gone down. Would he have believed Sakusa? He probably wouldn’t have. “… I regret all my decisions.” Osamu was right all along. Atsumu needs to reevaluate his choices before making any, because over three-quarters of his choices were lamentably terrible.

Sakusa hums nonchalantly, “You liked the sex, so it’s not a total loss, is it?”

“Yeah, ‘cause I guided ya through my _goddamn_ body, like a one-on-one private tutorial session of ‘ _Welcome to Horny Miya Atsumu, this is what ya can do to make him moan, scream, and come, in that order_.’” That makes him realize – though the fuck was amazing for Atsumu, it couldn’t have been for Sakusa – at best, it had to be subpar – because Atsumu can’t read minds like that. Something about it sickens him. Even if it was great for Atsumu, for Sakusa, “hey, Omi –“

“Just saying,” Sakusa cuts in, “I liked it as well.”

Atsumu almost staggers. “What?”

“Fucking you.” The blatancy of the sentence causes heat to spread across Atsumu’s face. “It’s not like I agreed to it because I wanted to pleasure you.”

“Oh.” He pops his mouth, “So, I was good?” He’s _never_ had any doubts or insecurities regarding his performance and techniques in bed until now. Sex with a mind reader does that to you, he assumes.

Sakusa scowls, “I literally said I liked it.”

“I was makin’ sure, okay? Geez,” he wishes he doesn’t appear as defensive as he feels. “… Didja notice ‘cause uh, that… thing?”

“Your mood drastically turned for the worse once you mentioned the private tutorial gibberish. You’re rather easy to comprehend, even without my Gift, Miya.”

“My pokerface is perfect, I dunno what yer talkin’ about.

“It has nothing to do with your pokerface.” Sakusa sighs lightly, “I can feel it, is all.”

 _Feel it,_ Atsumu wonders how such a life must be.

All he knows is that he’d never be able to do it.

To live like that.

_(“He’s a monster – that’s not our child. He’s not my child. I didn’t give birth to such a beast, to such a, such a,” her complexion was pale. She was a pale person by nature. Her skin wasn’t peach but white – an untainted, colorless canvas of white. A hysteric red bloomed on her cheeks as she howled at the man in front of her, her slender finger trembling – aimed towards him. He stood there like a statue, not knowing what to do. She was never like that. She was a pale woman, but she was never like that. Red. Wild. Fierce. “To such a freak.”_

_The man clenched his fist, but did not turn to him either. He was whispering. He might’ve not thought he was whispering, but he was. He couldn’t hear him. The woman’s eyes widened; he thought they couldn’t get any larger. Even her irises seemed to be glowing red, as she swirled to him – her face contorted with disdain and contempt. “If only he didn’t,” she hissed, and he flinched, taking a step backward, then another. “If only he didn’t –“_

_If only._

_If only you didn’t._

_If._

_He clutched his chest._

_“If you weren’t born, Kiyoomi –“)_

He gasps for oxygen as he yanks the sheets off, coughing and choking on his saliva as he breathes in, out, in, out. _It’s a dream._ It’s a dream. It’s a dream he knows, it’s a dream he has frequently, and – it’s a dream.

A mere dream.

His digital clock glows, ‘04:02.’ It glows red. Sakusa inhales through his nostrils. Then, he slides off the bed and drags himself to the fridge, where he reaches for a carton of milk. He warms the milk in a microwave, and gazes at the spinning mug, leaning against the dining table with his arms crossed.

_(“I didn’t give birth to such a freak.”)_

_(“I don’t mind that much. I don’t really think, anyway. Not a whole lot.”)_

The microwave dings. Sakusa removes the mug and lets the comforting warmth of the drink seep into his shivering stature. His nerves relax, albeit slightly. It’s the only trick which has any alleviating effect, whatsoever.

“’I don’t mind that much,’” Sakusa repeats Atsumu’s words, and huffs into the mug. “As if.”

Everyone did.

Even himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't seem to stop writing flashbacks and sad backstories it's a Problem


	5. Chapter 5

It wasn’t meant to unfold that way.

There are unavoidable, heated moments when one plays a sport, whether that’s soccer, basketball, baseball – and of course, volleyball. Altercations between athletes, an explosion of stress and ire that comes with the intensity of the game.

Regardless, it wasn’t meant to unfold that way.

They play a game against another team in Division 1. Atsumu wasn’t fond of the team, to be honest. They were exceptional players, but that’s all they were – there were rumors about them in the media. And while it is common knowledge to trust everything that the media feeds their audience, Atsumu was acquainted with a few of their members, and they weren’t, well, pleasant to be around.

It’s all fine before the whistle blows, signaling the beginning of the set. The rallies become extended, they each get a few service aces, and Inuaki saves many of their spikes, earning them a steady handful of points.

Then, Sakusa spikes a ball into the opponent’s setter’s face.

The referee pauses the game, and a crowd gathers around the setter – Doumoto, if Atsumu remembers correctly – their manager is hustling back and forth for a towel. “Shit, that’s gonna leave a nasty bruise,” Bokuto grimaces, rubbing his own eye. Sakusa is staring at the setter. Sakusa’s course was flawless; it was the setter’s fault for being there, unprepared.

And yet.

“You _motherfucker_ ,” the other team’s left marches towards Sakusa, ducking as he crosses the net. Sakusa backtracks with a frown. His attention is on the guy’s hands. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you? Speak the fucking truth, Sakusa Kiyoomi, Doumoto is our best setter, he rivals Miya Atsumu and Kageyama Tobio and you piece of shit just,” the man’s fingers wrap around Sakusa’s exposed wrist to yank him forward, and then Sakusa’s collar. Sakusa is completely rigid – doesn’t even breathe – until Bokuto and Meian rip the guy away together. Hinata checks on Sakusa, asking whether he’s alright.

All Atsumu can think about is how the bastard touched Sakusa when he was angry.

_The thoughts – the thoughts._

He probably read his thoughts, the fierce resentment hitting him full force.

He has a ton he wishes to spit back, but doesn’t, for the sake of Sakusa. Sakusa wouldn’t like that.

The game resumes, and the Jackals win with flying colors. Atsumu makes it happen; he wouldn’t be satisfied with any other result, especially against this dastardly team.

When they shake hands, Atsumu intentionally repositions himself so that he’s across the asshole who grabbed Sakusa’s collar. The guy winces when Atsumu squeezes his hand tightly. “He doesn’t like it when people touch ‘im, y’know. Omi.”

“I don’t care, Miya –“

“Ya should.” He leers, “Ya really should.”

Sakusa and the asshole decorate the news headlines that evening. Sakusa doesn’t seem perturbed, but Atsumu watches him attentively.

He’s managed to do more research on Sakusa’s Gift – specifically those whose ability revolved around the sense of touch. ‘ _Those who are Gifted with this sense are scarce, but a striking commonality was discovered; their abilities tend to have high precision and sensitivity, more so than those with other Gifted senses.’_ That implied that when Sakusa came into contact with a person possessing strong feelings, thoughts, then it was all directly transmitted to him.

 _That has to be draining, yeah?_ Atsumu thinks. To feel one’s emotions perhaps more powerfully than the owner themselves – that has to be torture, to a certain degree. He can understand why Sakusa wears such excessive layers and gloves twenty-four-seven now.

“Where’s Omi?”

“Oh, he’s showered first and went out.”

“Already?” Atsumu glances around, and Sakusa’s belongings are nowhere to be seen. “Well, ‘kay. Are y’all leavin’?”

“To the hotels, yeah. I have to call my wife.”

“Cool, cool. See ya tomorrow.”

In the shower stall, the scene from the court replays in his head. How the guy gripped Sakusa’s wrist, hollering into his face. Sakusa didn’t move at all, didn’t try to retaliate, just frozen. If he had resisted, he’d have to touch the asshole again. _Should’ve twisted his hand,_ Atsumu clucks his tongue. Twisting the faucet, he exits the stall with his sweatpants, shirtless.

He almost screams when he spots a black lump on the bench.

He doesn’t scream, however, when he notices what – or who – it is.

It’s Sakusa.

“Omi?”

Sakusa doesn’t budge. That scares Atsumu, just a little. “Hey, Omi –“ he skids to a halt when he realizes that Sakusa’s shoulders are rising and falling rapidly, at an uneven pace. He’s reeling over himself on the bench, his head sinking between his knees. That scares Atsumu a lot. “Omi, hey.” He crouches down; he can hear Sakusa panting. Sakusa didn’t pant this heavily even during a full-set match. “Omi, can ya hear me? It’s Atsumu.”

The ace flits at him for a brief second, before clenching his eyes shut. He’s sweating buckets, and his curls are soaked.

A panic attack.

Atsumu has never dealt with someone in the middle of a panic attack.

Shit.

He lifts his arm to reach out to Sakusa, but then retracts quickly. _Shit, shit, shit._ “Omi, ya gotta breathe, yer gonna suffocate. Raise yer face, ya hafta get fresher air. Omi?” He probes Sakusa – he’s never been this careful since – since forever.

To some miracle, Sakusa obliges and looks up, though his eyes remain closed. _Progress. This is progress._

“Can hear me, Omi? Breathe out slowly if ya can hear me.”

Sakusa’s knuckles whiten as he lets out a stuttered exhale.

“’kay, great. Yer doin’ great, Omi. Do ya want water? Breathe in for three seconds if ya need water.” Atsumu already has a bottle of water by his side. He uncaps it swiftly. Sakusa inhales – his eyelids flutter. Atsumu knocks the plastic bottle gently against Sakusa’s fingertips. “It’s open. Don’t worry, I didn’t remove the cap. Should be clean.”

Sakusa steals a glimpse at the water, and then with quivering hands, pours the contents into his mouth. Some of it dribbles down his chin due to the shaking, but Atsumu’s relieved either way. “Just continue breathin’. Do ya need anythin’ else?”

“… I’m good.” His voice is croaky and hoarse. Atsumu thins his lips but nods firmly. He watches Sakusa recover, the color returning to his face, although he was always pale. “Thank you.”

“’s fine. I owe ya for the cab, so.”

“That was common courtesy.”

“Then this is, too.”

Sakusa huffs.

Atsumu is awkward as he poses this question for the first time in his life: “Wanna talk about it?” He anticipates a blatant ‘no.’ It’s Sakusa Kiyoomi, after all. They aren’t all that close, except for the fact that they slept once. They aren’t friends.

Sakusa hums. “It happens every now and then. I usually have it under control. Today was… unforeseeable, I suppose. It can’t be helped.”

Happens every now and then? Under control? Atsumu is understandably lost. “Uh.”

“When I receive a stream of emotions, either from various people, or one abnormally impassioned individual drowning in their feelings, is what I mean.” Sakusa sips from the bottle, “It’s a sensory overload, but only that of touch, which results in a panic attack. A side effect of abusing the ability.”

“But ya can’t control yer ability, yeah?”

“Hence why it’s involuntary.”

 _What the hell, is that fucking unfair or what?_ “I don’t like that.”

“Biological mechanisms care less about your opinion, Miya.”

He pouts. He knows that, obviously. He was simply trying to be a supportive teammate, as the only person who knew Sakusa’s secret of being a Gifted.

Suddenly, an idea brightens in him. He’s a genius.

“Omi. Does it work the other way?”

“What?”

“Like, it should. Theoretically. If intense emotions overwhelm ya, then what about, what about soothing ones?” Sakusa’s expression is blank.

“Nobody’s attempted it before.”

“Well, congratulations, I’ll be the one to claim that title! Write it in yer journal or somethin’, Omi, this is a momentous day.” His palm hovers over Sakusa’s. “Can I?” Sakusa shrugs, and Atsumu takes that as a ‘yes.’ _Calming stuff. Think about calming stuff. Like aroma therapy. Or something. Calming, what’s calming? Relaxing._

He decides on a memory from when he’s five.

He’s sitting on the porch of his grandmother’s house in the countryside of Hyogo, playing catch with Osamu in the corn field. The sun shines golden over their heads, and the soil tickles the spaces between his toes as he sprints past the tall plants. His grandmother calls them over for a snack – a tray of cut watermelons. They’re the shape of triangles, juicy and red. Osamu spits seeds like a machine gun into Atsumu’s face, and he takes revenge by doing it back. His grandmother scolds them for it. A grasshopper cries in the field. The skies are blue, and the clouds are fluffy white.

When he glances at Sakusa, the man is gazing at him – without his typical piercing edge.

A little softer.

“How,” Atsumu gulps, “how was that?”

“The watermelon seeds were quite gross.”

“We were five, cut us some slack!”

And then – and then – Atsumu doubts his vision.

Because the hell, is that a smile on Sakusa’s face?

Well, it’s a _quirk_ of the corner of his mouth. Atsumu’s expanding the definition of a smile here.

“It was nice.” Sakusa mumbles, and Atsumu’s heart thumps once. Twice. Thrice. “Thank you, Miya.”

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

Oh, no.

 _Oh,_ no.

###

He assumed everyone felt what he felt.

Everyone said he was a quiet kid. He never comprehended what was so bizarre about that – why were words and conversations necessary when he could hear everything? He knew what his mother was cooking for lunch, he knew what his siblings yearned for when they were crying, and he knew what most people had in their minds. He thought that was natural. He thought everyone could read him, as he could read everyone else.

He later learns that this is far from the truth.

Very far.

It was a tranquil Sunday when it happened.

His mother shouted his name – “ _Kiyoomi, dinner is ready!”_

They sat around the dining table, his brother and sister toying with their utensils as they waited. His father put down the newspaper, and his mother smiled at him as she ruffled his hair. Her smile was dazzling.

And then –

(‘I wonder if Tatsuhiro-san went home safely.’)

Images – of his mother – embracing another man. A man he didn’t recognize as a family member.

It was a genuine question. A curious kid wanting an answer. That was all it was.

The curiosity, however, killed the cat.

Someone should’ve bothered to teach him that.

“ _Mom, who’s Tatsuhiro-san?”_

His mother’s smile disappeared. What replaced it was an expression of apprehension, disbelief, and –

She clutched his shoulder. “ _How,”_ she whispered – his brother and sister were murmuring, his father was, “ _How did you, Kiyoomi, how did you,”_ her volume increased. He stared at her, his pupils dilated.

There was nothing he could feel from his mother – nothing, but everything. Everything, and nothing. Something deep in him broke as she dug her nails into his shoulders.

It was over.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I don't have a solid update cycle for this fic, because it's just a work I'm writing for fun. I'm happy to know many of you are enjoying it, though!

Miya Atsumu and his experience with love can be summarized as, ‘Burn, Burn, Crash, _Crash_.’

Not including the countless one-night stands he’s waded through, he too, had serious, semi-committed relationships. Semi, because Atsumu always failed epically with commitment. There was a girl before he uncovered his sexuality from the closet. She was a nice girl. He liked her ponytail, though her perfume was too florally and saccharine.

Then there was his first, exclusive gay relationship in college with Futakuchi Kenji, a former captain of Datekou. Atsumu met him once during nationals in high school. Futakuchi was a cynical asshole, which was why they got along, but also why they failed – crashed. They were both too stubborn, quick to presume, and competitive, in the unhealthy way. They broke up on pleasant terms, under mutual agreement that they weren’t compatible.

There were around two more, perhaps. One was a nerd in mechanical engineering, and another one was a dude playing for the national basketball team. Burn, burn, crash, crash.

He had settled for casual hookups after that, the no-strings-attached route. It was easier, more efficient, neat, and emotionally numbing. It was a good thing, with how passionate Atsumu got with volleyball. He couldn’t be passionate about anything, anyone else, or he’d burst into flames and be left with nothing but ashes of his soul. Sure, sometimes the plan backfired, like that one accident with Kageyama, which continues to be buried as history. Other than that, however, casual was great. Terrific, spectacular, a blessing – you get the flow.

So – _this_ is a sensation Atsumu hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

The buzzing in his stomach, the jitters in his fingertips, the constant giddiness. The frequent distractions during volleyball. During _volleyball_. Atsumu was never sidetracked in volleyball, ever.

Now he is.

It doesn’t help that the source of distraction is on his team, running on the same court.

For clarification, it’s not, you know. _That._ Not the pink, shiny, glittery cinematic graphics in the background, the one you see in B-class romance films with low budgets, _that_ kind of thing. Not that. Not where there are cherry blossoms fluttering through the female protagonist’s wavy locks as her love interest rides a bicycle with his perfectly styled hair and cute striped shirt. Not where there’s that cute K-pop soundtrack booming through the speakers as they meet eyes. _Not that._

It’s queasy. Awkward. Weird.

Because Miya Atsumu’s like that.

Burn, burn, crash, crash.

Or is it crash, crash, burn, burn? He can’t tell.

It’s the chill that speeds down his spine when Sakusa slams an impeccable service ace to the other side. It’s not the, ‘ _wow, awesome course,’_ he vaguely thinks, but, ‘ _shit. Shit, why is he so good?’_ And he’s picturing Sakusa’s form as he soars through the air, his uniform riding up his abdomen, as he furrows his brows in concentration. It’s that snapshot in his head that lingers through the span of the game, and it persists, glued to the walls of Atsumu’s imagination.

It’s the squeeze under his ribs when Sakusa hovers over the net, prepared to spike without even sparing Atsumu a glance. He used to think that was a given. Who wouldn’t trust his sets? Sakusa wasn’t an exception to that rule of his. But as Sakusa plants a faultless straight and scores them a point, glimpsing at Atsumu, nodding – Atsumu’s breathing ceases for three seconds. It’s different. The realization that Sakusa _trusts_ his sets – it’s different. He was aware of it in all their previous games, but it’s different now that he knows. Actually knows.

It’s Sakusa Kiyoomi.

He troubles Miya Atsumu.

Although Atsumu is, well, a jerk, he isn’t dense. He isn’t emotionally uneducated or lacking. He recognizes what this will lead to, and also how it will unfold. It’s nothing new.

But even he hasn’t fallen for a mind reader before.

The concept itself should be _fictional_. In his tiny, unacademic brain, the Gifted have always been somewhat fictitious entities. Sure, he learned that they were around and that they existed. Sure, he saw clips and blogs about how they were supernatural, those beings that only lived in those wizard and demigod Hollywood action movies. It’s like albinism in Japan – there were albinos in their country, though rare. You know they’re around, you know they’re real, but personally meeting one feels surreal.

And yet, Sakusa is one of them. One of the twelve, twelve in a hundred million.

To top it off, he can _read minds._

Well, to be precise, Sakusa could sense thoughts and images related to those thoughts. He’s not capable of skimming an individual’s whole life history by touching their hand. It’s a limited ability, but even then – attraction typically does not blossom over an entire lifetime. As a matter of fact, Atsumu’s only taken note of his a week ago.

 _Out of all people,_ he desires to punch himself in the gut, hard. _Out of all fuckin’ people, ya had to go ahead and choose a mind reader. Yer doin’ a splendid job, hormones._

“What’re ya thinkin’ about? Trash?”

“’m not _trash_.”

“Never said ya were trash, I said ya were thinkin’ ‘bout trash. What, ya self-conscious, Tsumu?”

Atsumu huffs as he assists his twin chop the carrots. “’course not. Just, ya know.”

“No, I dunno. Contrary to common belief, we ain’t telepathic, and I have better things to do than guess what yer thinkin’. It’s probably somethin’ dumb.”

“’s a very intellectual mental grind, I’ll let ya know.”

“Tsumu, if this is ya goin’ on about how pineapples on pizza is a grave sin again –“

“I think I have a crush on someone.”

Osamu’s knife pauses midway through the slab of salmon on the cutting board. He stares at Atsumu. He stares a little more. “… For real?”

“I can’t have a fake crush, just sayin’.”

“Sure can. Ya had a weird thing for Kita-san in high school.”

“Who _didn’t_ have a weird a thing for Kita-san in high school?”

“I didn’t.”

“Ya must be blind.”

“My eyesight is average.” Osamu puts down the knife, nonetheless. “So? Who’s the sorry guy? I should send him some food for encouragement. A sign of sympathy and pity. Give me an address.”

“The hell, no.”

“Oh, ya dunno where he lives? Fuck, Tsumu, if he’s some sketchy ass from those bars ya frequent –“

“Sakusa Kiyoomi.”

Osamu sit there, motionless.

Three seconds. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

Then, Osamu reaches for his phone, and dials a number. “Rin, sign up for an appointment at the mental hospital. This is very urgent.”

_“Shit, has Atsumu finally lost hit last strand of sanity?”_

“I _haven’t_ lost anythin’, ya assholes.”

Osamu mutters to Suna that he’d call later and hangs up. “Is this about the sex god thing? Was he _that_ unforgettable, or have ya just never gotten mindblowin’ dick before? Or what, is it his germaphobe aesthetic? That mask and glove fashion he wears? Ya shouldn’t fall for people like that, Tsumu, it’s rude and –“

“’s not like that, how many times do I hafta tell ya?”

“Ya literally just told me ya liked the guy ya called a scrub months ago, isn’t it a given that I’d react like this?”

“I don’t _like_ him or anythin’,” Atsumu sniffs sheepishly, but Osamu squints at him. “… Like, not now. Yet. It’s not a valid statement.”

His brother chugs down a bottle of water and sighs. “Fine. Who ya decide to crush on is none of my business. What’s the deal, then? Ya have a crush on ‘im, ya already fucked – everything’s set. Yer even on the same team, must be destiny.”

Atsumu sinks to the table and compresses his cheek against the cool surface. “It ain’t that simple.”

“Just a crush, Tsumu, like hell it ain’t that simple.”

 _Ya wouldn’t say that with such confidence if Suna could read yer mind, too._ “This is merely a what-if situation, Samu,” Osamu hums. “What if – what if, y’know? Ya liked Sunarin,” ‘I already like him, that’s not a what-if, Tsumu,’ “Yeah, but like, what if Sunarin didn’t like ya back,” ‘Oh, that’s not somethin’ I wanna imagine. Can I opt outta this what-if?’ “Jesus Christ, can ya just shut up and _listen_? What if Sunarin didn’t like ya back, and so ya just keep yer feelings to yerself but – but Sunarin realizes?”

“That I like him?”

“Yeah. Ya haven’t confessed or anythin’, but he knows. And it’s all, like, uncomfortable, because ya haven’t confessed, so he can’t give a proper answer. But based on his reaction, ya can predict his answer, so ya never confess, and it’s stagnant like that – a stalemate. What if that happened?”

Osamu twirls a chopstick he’s used for stirring the ingredients between his finger joints, contemplating. “I wouldn’t like it, but ‘m also not much of a warrior to charge into a battle I know I’ll lose. Will let it be as is. Maybe I’d move on one day, and we’d be back to normal.”

 _Move on, huh._ Is it possible to move on from feelings that haven’t even sprouted yet?

“What, does Sakusa hate ya?” Questions Osamu, “Wouldn’t be surprised.”

“I dunno.”

( _“It was nice. Thank you, Miya.”)_

“Then go for it. Yer face is not half bad ‘cause we share genes.”

“The scariest part is that he’ll know, but I won’t.” Atsumu mumbles, and Osamu frowns, puzzled. _He’ll know, but I won’t._ The moment Sakusa brushes his arm, he’ll notice. And Atsumu won’t. Atsumu won’t know. He’ll never be able to. Sakusa is Gifted, but he isn’t. “’s scary, Samu.”

It’s scary.

(Burn, burn, crash, crash.)

Having a crush on Sakusa Kiyoomi is like watching a horror film.

It’s freaky, but you peek out of the safety of your blankets, because you have to see what happens next.

(Did horror films have happy endings, though?)

He doesn’t miss the minor details, the slight actions, and random habits of Sakusa. Sakusa avoids populous areas – while it seems to be for an amalgamation of reasons, Atsumu catches that rather than it being for his wellbeing, Sakusa takes that extra measure for the sake of others. Sakusa Kiyoomi is that kind of person. He pinches the bridge of his nose when he’s agitated, and his form doesn’t crumble even when he’s under pressure or stress. He is quite fond of birds. Sakusa mentions that he used to own a pet chick as a toddler. The chick and young Sakusa reside in Atsumu’s mind rent-free for a while.

“Miya.”

“Yeah?”

Sakusa tosses a plastic bag towards him. Atsumu grabs it – there’s a styrofoam packet of yakisoba. “You said you liked it.”

Sakusa has exceptional memory.

“Um, yeah.”

“It’s for last time.” Sakusa replies, “In the locker room.”

“Oh, ya really didn’t hafta.”

“Just eat it.”

“… ‘kay.”

The yakisoba is delicious. Atsumu has to swallow the urge to scream as he chews on the noodles. Why scream, he’s not certain either. It’s been eons since he’s felt like this. _This._

Romance was always like fire. He burned, he burned fast, and the faster he burned, the faster he crashed. It was thrilling, suspenseful, an adventure, and also anticlimactic. Atsumu liked it. He liked romance in flames, blazing so hot that it was over before he could pay too much attention to what was actually going on. Over before he could analyze his feelings, understand himself. Over, in ashes. He didn’t have the leisure to stall around. He had to move on. He moved on. He never failed to move on from a destroyed relationship.

It was because he never had anything to fear.

Burning, crashing, none of that is traumatic or petrifying once you become accustomed to the cycle. The burn is less prominent, and the crash is less painful. You become trained. You learn how to melt in, how to warm and cool. It’s not a challenge when there’s nothing to look out for.

“Hey, Miya.”

He almost jumps out of the bench. “Y-yeah, Omi?”

“Water.” Sakusa offers the bottle to him. He’s wearing gloves.

Atsumu grips the circumference of the bottle. His nails graze the leather of Sakusa’s gloves. Sakusa lets go. “Thought you’d be thirsty. Training begins in twenty.”

“Sure. I’ll be there.”

The door shuts, clicks.

Atsumu’s hold around the bottle loosens, and it falls to the floor with a ‘thunk.’

( _Burn, burn, burn, burn.)_

“Fuck.”

He doesn’t want to burn; he doesn’t want to crash. He doesn’t want to coat his heart in ashes.

_Fuck._

_(Crackle, crackle, crackle, crack.)_


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your feedback everyone! I can't believe this fic has reached 200 kudos already. Here's the update!

As his mother often said, the twins were both idiots. “ _I dunno who ya two take after. Both yer pa and I are intelligent people, and ya lads behave as if ya were born yesterday. Sometimes I consider reportin’ ya both to the Japanese government.”_

Elaborated by their less blunt and more poetic father, Osamu thought with his eyes, while Atsumu thought with his heart.

Which, you know, both technically mean they do not think with their brains.

Osamu relies on his visual perception to analyze a circumstance or person. What he sees is pretty much equivalent to what he thinks. He _thinks,_ of course, and in the most conventional sense, he does utilize his brain in the process, but that’s not the point. Osamu has the flaw of not looking beyond the surface, mainly because he is typically not interested in the subject matter enough to do so.

Atsumu, on the other hand, thinks with his heart. His emotions are erratic and irrational. It’s who he is, and he’s never cared to rectify that aspect of his persona. In this world, there are people who _actually_ think with their brains, like Akaashi Keiji – and others who don’t. It’s as simple as the fact that there are people who like broccoli and people who don’t.

And therefore, naturally, Atsumu, who thinks with his heart, makes regrettable decisions when he has no clue what to do with his feelings.

He calls in sick for practice.

He hasn’t even called in sick for practice when he _was_ sick before.

He does it because they’re off-season; no games, less frequent training sessions. If they were in mid-season, he wouldn’t have resorted to this either. But they aren’t, and Atsumu has yet to figure out what he’s ought to do with his so-called ‘Omi-Omi Predicament.’

His pretense was meant to last three days, four days, max.

On his third day, he’s bed-ridden with a fever of thirty-nine degrees Celsius.

 _Oh my god, was it the fucking kid,_ Atsumu recalls how a chubby toddler at the supermarket yesterday sneezed in his face. The mother apologized profusely and Atsumu shrugged it off. The kid’s cheeks were a little rosy. _Jesus Christ, it was the kid._

“ _Samuuu,”_ he croaks groggily, his phone lay on his pillow. “I might fuckin’ die.”

“ _Don’t be an idiot, ya ain’t gonna die.”_

“I haven’t been sick in _years_!”

“ _Well, then it’s ‘bout time ya come down with somethin’.”_

“I missed practice for three days.”

 _“That’s completely yer fault.”_ Bells chime on the other end. “ _Look, I got customers filin’ in. I’ll visit ya with some porridge and medicine before dinner so order somethin’, drink lots of fluids, whatever ma used to do. If yer temperature gets any higher, go to the hospital.”_

Atsumu groans. “I don’t like hospitals.”

“ _Don’t be a fuckin’ kid. Bye.”_

He glares at his screen, where Osamu has hung up on him. Osamu was always immune to the fear of hospitals. Atsumu doesn’t understand how.

 _Besides that,_ he grits his teeth, _is everythin’ supposed to hurt?_ He’s been too healthy these past couple years to remember what being ill was like. His back aches, his stomach aches, his head is pounding, his throat is dry, he has the Sahara Desert in one nostril and the Niagara Falls in the other, an itch he’s too worn out to scratch somewhere on his left foot, amplified by a hangover he’s gotten from drinking five bottles of sake last night.

Pro tip: if you want to live life easier, stop thinking with your heart. It might solve ninety-eight of your ninety-nine problems.

 _Water._ He coughs – it’s like wheezing on sand. He’s showered yesterday, but his skin is sticky with sweat. For a second, he considers the option of contacting one of his friends, only to realize that all his friends are volleyball players or reside in Osaka. He doesn’t even have that many friends. _Oh, man. That’s depressing._

After five grueling minutes of thorough mental debate over whether he _really_ needs a cup of water, he rises and drags himself to the kitchen. _Why the hell did I choose to buy a house with a large ass living room,_ he is desperate to undo his life choices, now. He can definitely survive in a house the size of his bathroom. He can sleep in the bathtub and drink from the faucet. Sounds heavenly in comparison to this Trail of Sweaty Fire.

He wraps his fingers around a glass on the rack. _Mission Acquire Cup, accomplished._ Onto Mission Pour Water –

His doorbell buzzes.

He drops the glass.

It shatters.

The mission has failed.

“ _Holy mother of,”_ hisses Atsumu, as he avoids the shards scattered across the tiles reflexively. His cooked brain supplies him with some minor details: he has a fever of thirty-nine degrees. He is thirsty. That glass was Osamu’s favorite glass. Atsumu doesn’t give a shit about Osamu’s favorite glass, but Atsumu is the one who will have to clean up this mess. Atsumu doesn’t like to clean in general. And once again, Atsumu is ill.

He lets out an irate, incoherent tirade of cusses as he marches (wobbles) to the doorway. He twists the brass knob and, “Look, ‘m havin’ a fucked up day so if ya would kindly _piss off_ ,” a pair of white sneakers enter his view. A pair of white Nike sneakers, so white that you’d believe it if the owner said they purchased it a minute ago. Then black trousers – a logo of the MSBY Jackals printed on its pocket. Gloved hands.

“I can tell you’re having a terrible day, Miya.”

(His brain interrupts, “ _Dude, ‘Omi-Omi Predicament’ is literally in your face, what are we gonna do?”_ )

“Shut the hell up, man.”

Sakusa squints at him. _No, I said that aloud?_ “Uh, not ya. Just, uh. Talkin’ bull.” The spiker appears skeptical. “What’s up, Omi?”

“I lost the game of rock-paper-scissors for electing who was going to check on you.” _Wow, ya must suck at rock-paper-scissors._ “You’re sweating an ocean.”

“Thanks.” _I’m doing fairly awful as you can see, but I’ll manage and maybe even recover within the next two days or so. I’m kind of occupied right now though, because,_ “I dropped a glass.”

“What?”

Atsumu pauses. “Did I not say the whole thin’ aloud this time?”

“You said you dropped a glass after thanks.”

“Oh.” _I’m more out of it than I initially judged._ “’M ‘kay. I’ll be at the gym by Sunday, so –“

“Where did you drop the glass?”

“ -maybe ya should leave and,” pause. “Wuh?”

Sakusa is patient. “Where’s the broken glass, Miya?”

 _I mean, I’ll tidy it up once yer gone._ “In the kitchen.” _Fuck, not again._ Sakusa proceeds to trudge into his house, knocking off his sneakers. “Wait, Omi, ya don’t hafta – _ack_ ,” he squeaks when a bottle of lukewarm water is tossed into his chest, followed by a plastic Seven Eleven bag. There are lemon cough drops and medicine, along with instant noodle soup. He has a quick flashback to Kita’s note in high school. _Crap, I’m weak against stuff like this. Crap._ He sniffs.

“Have you eaten?” Sakusa inquires from the kitchen as he sweeps the shards into the dustbin.

“Omi, I can just –“

“I’ll boil the water. Give me the noodle soup.” Atsumu obliges. He’s too tired to retort. “Lie down on the couch or something. It’ll be ready in six minutes.” He props himself on the couch and gazes at the pitch-black display of his television set. His chipper brain regresses with, ‘ _Is that Sakusa Kiyoomi in the flesh, why the hell is he here, oh, right, he lost a game of rock-paper-scissors; did he actually? I hate how he’s hot when I’m rotting on a couch. What the fuck. Is Sakusa Kiyoomi cooking in my kitchen, why the heck is he cooking in my kitchen, that shouldn’t even be real, why the **fuck** is he cooking in my kitchen, oh my god.’_

“Miya?”

He lifts an eyelid. Sakusa is standing with the steaming noodle soup and a spoon. Atsumu mumbles a ‘thanks’ and slides to the floor, where the roundtable is. “It might burn your tongue, watch out.”

 _Yeah, thanks for the meal._ “Ya sound like my ma.” _I might just give up on trying to regain control over my mouth._

“Your mother would probably serve something more nutritious than store-bought noodle soup.” Sakusa answers instead. Atsumu hums and swallows a spoonful of soup. It vaguely tastes like chicken, but he can’t tell with his dulled senses.

 _Ya can leave now, ya know._ “How long are ya gonna stay?”

“Once you take your meds, I suppose.”

“Ya didn’t hafta come.”

“The others wanted to know how you were faring.” _They might as well have come, then._ Something about that response irks Atsumu. He suppresses the urge to – he doesn’t know what he’s suppressing. “What have you even caught?”

 _Some cold, I dunno._ “None of yer business.” He’s mixing his thoughts and speech, his subconscious and conscious. Atsumu nibbles on his bottom lip. His stomach churns. He wants to puke. “Yer bad with germs, aren’t ya? Might as well get the fuck out already.”

(“ _Ya think too much with yer heart, Atsumu. What are ya gonna do when ya can’t keep with yer heart? Yer bound to say things ya will certainly wish ya hadn’t in the future. Learn to think differently, diversely. Deeply. Ya will hurt less that way. Both others, and yerself.”_ )

“Miya.”

He clamps his mouth shut. He doesn’t want to talk. He feels like if he utters another word, he won’t be able to fix anything – if there was anything to fix to begin with. “Look, Omi, ‘m just, drowsy, I dunno. Maybe ya should –“

“My mysophobia is learnt.”

He stills and turns to Sakusa. The latter is not facing him, however. “… Learnt?”

“It might be more accurate to explain that it’s conditioned.” Sakusa goes on, monotonous. “Either way, it’s not, well, real. It is, but it isn’t. It wasn’t real when it started.”

“I don’t,” Atsumu short-circuits, “I don’t understand?” Even if he weren’t sick, he wouldn’t have understood what that indicated.

“It was an act,” clarifies Sakusa, “devised by my father. An excuse for wearing gloves everywhere, every day. The mask was merely a bonus. Some teachers have issues with children standing out. Most children have issues with a peer standing out. It was the optimal solution.” Atsumu attempts to comprehend all this. “In other words, I behaved as if I was diagnosed with mysophobia – and then while living that lifestyle, it developed into something more than an act.”

“Is that… that’s possible?”

“Under immense mental pressure and stress, apparently.” Sakusa doesn’t even appear affected in the slightest as he relates his story. The entirety of Atsumu’s lump of agitation, fury, and contempt dissipates at the sight. “It’s not strictly defined as mysophobia. According to the psychiatrist, it’s a consequence of the bundled stress and trauma that piled on as I matured.”

Stress. Trauma.

Trauma.

Atsumu is suddenly flung back to the locker room, when Sakusa was hunched over on the bench, breathless.

( _It’s involuntary._

_He’s never wished for any of that._

_He’s Gifted._

_How the fuck is that a Gift?_

_Trauma._

_Who the hell deserves that?_

_Why?_

_Why is it Sakusa Kiyoomi?_

_Why?)_

Sakusa glances at Atsumu. “I’m trying to communicate that I’m not as bothered as ordinary mysophobic individuals would be, Miya. My mysophobia is a figment of my imagination.”

 _Like fuck it is._ “Like fuck it is.” Atsumu doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get all of it. He doesn’t get why anyone would be persuaded that it’d be wise to force a kid to pretend to be something, someone they aren’t. He doesn’t get why anyone let that travesty happen until the wound festered within the kid. He doesn’t get why nobody realized sooner.

He doesn’t get why _he_ hasn’t realized sooner.

“It’s real if it hurts, Omi.”

Sakusa locks eyes with him. Atsumu doesn’t look away, despite his weariness. Eventually, Sakusa rips the packet of pills, “One after each meal.” Atsumu doesn’t miss how Sakusa diverts the conversation. _Not fair. You started it._ He crunches the bitter pills between his teeth and flops onto his bed again. Sakusa observes him with his arms folded as he leans on the doorframe of Atsumu’s bedroom.

“Yer not gonna watch me sleep, are ya?”

Sakusa huffs. “No.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’d be weird.”

The spiker turns away. Atsumu succumbs to the sweet lull of sleep accordingly. Then, “I can’t practice properly without your sets, Miya. Make sure you recover by Sunday.”

Atsumu sputters and scrambles up, clawing at his sheets.

Sakusa has vanished.

_(Trauma, mysophobia, ‘I can’t practice without your sets,’ Omi-Omi.)_

Burn, burn, burn.

###

“We need someone to check on Atsumu – who’s willing to pay him a visit?”

“Oh, I’m free, coach.”

“Same here.”

“Me too, me too!”

Sakusa stalls in front of his locker.

“I can go, coach.”

Everyone falls into a phase of pregnant silence, frowning at Sakusa. Bokuto is gaping. “ _You,_ Omi-Omi?”

“I have an errand to run for my cousin in the neighborhood. Might as well.”

‘Oh, of course, that makes sense.’ ‘Yeah, otherwise Sakusa wouldn’t…’ ‘I thought Sakusa caught the flu for a sec, gee…’

The task is entrusted to Sakusa.

Fun fact: Sakusa did not have an errand to run for Motoya.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think we're around ~60 to 70% through the fic! It was more meant to be a long one-shot, so yeah. A huge thanks to all of you who are ever so supportive and loving - here is an update :D

It’s the small gestures.

They occasionally eat out together after training and chat. Atsumu learns that Sakusa has a maniacal obsession for pickled plums, as he adds them to his curry, his slice of pepperoni pizza, his dark chocolate ice cream, and even his toast. “ _Y’know, I don’t judge people for their preferences, but ain’t ya goin’ a little overboard with yer umeboshi?”_

At that, Sakusa replied, “ _It’s healthy for you.”_

 _Well, veggies are healthy for ya, but I’m sure ya can die from eatin’ too much of it._ He gets used to Sakusa ordering an additional platter of pickled plums wherever they go; he doesn’t even bother to enter restaurants which don’t offer it when he’s out with Sakusa.

There were other things, like how Sakusa had siblings, though they didn’t communicate much. “ _My brother is a prosecutor, and my sister is a veterinarian.”_

_“Wow, accomplished.”_

_“I’d rather have a brother who owns an onigiri diner. I don’t even have pets.”_

_“Yeah? I can ask Samu to make some umeboshi-flavored ones.”_

_“I’d appreciate that.”_

Osamu smirks, omniscient, when Atsumu initially places an order for seven umeboshi onigiris. “ _He likes ‘em, what do ya expect me to do?”_ His twin shook his head and packed the rice balls in a fancy golden bag adorned with the diner’s mascot stickers. “ _The hell, Samu, this looks like a Christmas present.”_

_“I mean, it’s for yer crush. Thought I should go all out.”_

_“With the packaging?”_

_“The heart is what matters, Tsumu.”_

Sakusa consumes Osamu’s onigiris in two days. It becomes a part of Atsumu’s weekly schedule – Sunday evening, he pre-orders seven onigiris for Sakusa, picks them up on Monday morning, and delivers them to Sakusa. Sakusa thanks Atsumu and buys him three meals of his choice. Atsumu always suggests restaurants and bistros that are at least thirty minutes away by foot. “ _Is it really worth the walk?”_ Sakusa complains incessantly, though he tags along, nonetheless.

_Yeah, ‘cause I wanna be with ya as long as possible without lookin’ like I’m desperate, duh. “You’ll love it, I swear.”_

It’s a blessing that Atsumu had accompanied Osamu on every single one of his food tours around Tokyo when they arrived. He has basically acquired a Ph.D. in Tokyo’s best eateries. Although in the beginning, he spent hours the night prior formulating a mental list of conversation topics to discuss with Sakusa, in some frantic breakdown like, _‘shit, what if I’m awkward as fuck,’ ‘what if I accidentally tell him that he looks cute when I was tryin’ to say that the puppy on the road was cute,’ ‘what if I act stupid and freak out about sittin’ across him,’_ so on and so forth. He’s pathetic and emotionally uneducated, you must understand.

He still has the first list he made in his phone:

  1. His favorite food
  2. Whether he likes pineapple on pizza (note: even if he says yes, do not scowl)
  3. Cats or dogs (he’s probably a cat person but who knows)
  4. ~~Something smart??? (like GDP or current events, though I don’t remember what GDP stands for~~ )
  5. Ask Samu



Osamu hung up on him when he did, groaning, “ _The fuck, Tsumu, yer not six, think of yer own questions.”_

It didn’t actually wind up as a disaster, as Sakusa wasn’t a conversationalist, especially during meals. Atsumu wants to hide in burrow when he recalls his rush of panic then.

Anyway, the important base of progress is that they are notably closer – friendlier, even. The Jackals’ Twitter page has been bombarded with double shots of Atsumu and Sakusa on the court, fans commenting on how they seemed to be interacting more. It’s true, and personally, Atsumu has been proud of himself. Baby steps, right?

(It _technically_ began with them accidentally fucking, but minor details.)

So, one fleeting thought flashes by the posterior of his mind as he inhales a shuddering gulp of air:

_What the hell happened?_

He is panting. Blood rushes to his brain, to the back of his eyes. His fists are clenched. Uncontrollable ripples of enmity, animosity, sheer fury, _anger_ – causes his muscles to spasm as he suppresses the urge to scream at the person in front of him.

Said person is Sakusa Kiyoomi.

Hinata is warily glancing at both of them, nibbling on his bottom lip nervously. Inuaki has a volleyball gripped between his fingers. Meian is regarding them with a stern expression. Atsumu is too immersed in his own ire to take notice of what the others are doing.

“What didja fuckin’ say?”

There are days. Days where it’s just not Atsumu’s day. He’d witness a squashed rat on the road, stand in a queue for his breakfast only to have his favorite bread sold out before his turn, bump into a persistent salesperson attempting to get him to subscribe to whatever service – the common drill. But he’s years past twenty, and he can’t skip training – work – merely because it’s not his day.

Those days affect his performance. He isn’t sick, not really. It’s a psychological thing, the mood he’s in on those particular days. He’s crankier, short-tempered, impatient, and borderline intolerable. To be fair, he’s made applaudable advances since high school, but Miya Atsumu is Miya Atsumu. His essential core remains identical.

Inarizaki had been aware of that. Kita was the kind of captain who was adept at dealing with those like Atsumu, persuading him with irrefutable logic and reason. It’s not that the Jackals _aren’t_ informed of his personality, and he’s certainly not implying that Meian was inferior to Kita.

The explanation is simple – they have matured but they’re less in tune as a team, with fresh and rocky dynamics. It’s natural. There’s also another thing – if Atsumu had his days, Sakusa too, had his days.

They just don’t know each other well _enough_ , yet.

Of course, Atsumu was not in the mindset to consider all this through. Neither was Sakusa, perhaps.

“Switch out with a reserve setter if you’re going to play like that,” Sakusa bites back.

_Our reserve setter isn’t even here today._

“And how exactly am I playin’, huh? Tell me, Omi.”

Bokuto claps his hands and pats Atsumu’s shoulder, “Hey, Tsumu-Tsumu, y’know Omi-Omi didn’t mean –“

“I meant what I meant, Bokuto.”

Bokuto’s face crumples as he retracts his hand from Atsumu.

“It’s a practice game, guys.” Meian articulates slowly, his arms folded, “Cool your heads. Atsumu, it’s undeniable that your tosses have been lower in accuracy today, but you’ve been doing fine with your serves and spikes. Sakusa,” the captain swivels to the player, “I know you’re more sensitive about angles, the proximity to the net and whatnot, but everyone has days where they’re slightly off. You too – your pace has been rather arbitrary throughout this set. We would’ve received a warning from the referee had this been an actual match.”

Atsumu grinds his teeth and glowers at Sakusa. The latter averts his gaze with a sigh.

It’s not a matter of whether Atsumu likes Sakusa or not; this is about his pride as a setter, as an athlete, as one of the six regular members on the team. It’s about the grueling amount of time and effort he’s poured into the sport. And he can’t accept anyone brushing that off like they would a spec of dust on their jacket, easy, light, and nonchalant.

Their tension continues to exist throughout the entire span of their training. Adriah tries to cheer Atsumu up with his jokes, but they’re ineffective. Hinata is a warm ball of sunshine, but unfortunately, Atsumu couldn’t be soothed. When he marches into the shower, he twists the faucet to the left, and ice-cold water hits his skin and scalp. _No dinner,_ he faintly thinks with a huff. His brows narrow when he replays Sakusa’s piercing rejoinders on the court. _The fuck was that about my skill and capability as setter? Bitch._

_(“I can’t practice properly without your sets, Miya. Make sure you recover by Sunday.”)_

He pinches the bridge of his nose. _Don’t remember useless crap, Jesus Christ._

He spends approximately twenty-five minutes in the stall, maybe thirty-five. He doesn’t want to run into Sakusa. It’s not like they can eat together after that. “Not gonna fuckin’ apologize,” he mutters quietly as he pulls on his drawstring pants and loose tee. Droplets of water saturate his collar, but he doesn’t bother to dry his hair. He’s too distracted by his bumbling wrath to do so.

Momentarily, he forgets that this is one of those days. Days where literally nothing – absolutely nothing – works in the favor of Miya Atsumu.

It’s no surprise that Sakusa is still in the locker rooms.

“Why the hell,” Atsumu grumbles, but doesn’t say more. Instead, he turns to his locker and stuffs his belongings into his bag. _Leave. Just leave. Don’t linger around, just leave._

“Miya.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

Another exhale. The act irks Atsumu. “Miya, listen.”

“I don’t wanna talk, Omi.”

“What I said during practice, that was –“

He slams his locker, cutting off Sakusa. The spiker pauses. Atsumu breathes in through his nostrils, glaring at the steel lining of the locker’s surface. Finally, he turns on his heel. “Yer point was heard, nice and clear. No need to reiterate it.”

Sakusa twitches. Atsumu realizes that he isn’t wearing his mask. “I wasn’t,” a second of silence, another second of a troubled frown, “I didn’t intend to demean your ability or value as a setter on our team.”

“Oh, yeah?” He drawls, though he knows Sakusa is being genuine. Sakusa isn’t an individual who would apologize when he didn’t feel sorry for it. “Just spurred in ya, did it?”

“Miya –“

“Stop fuckin’ callin’ me that.”

This too, shall pass. Atsumu’s mood swings and bouts of rage typically dissolve with time. He even reconciliated with the person if he felt like it. But he needs time – sufficient time, to reflect on his actions, his errs, his flaws. The length of a shower isn’t sufficient at all.

(Again – if they knew each other better, then, well.)

( _But you like him.)_

“Just,” Atsumu recollects the scraps of his sanity, “piss off.”

He plods past Sakusa. He registers the scent of Sakusa’s minty detergent.

( _This fucking bastard.)_

_(You like him.)_

_(What did he dare utter about my sets?)_

_(You like him.)_

_(With what right, unforgivable_ _.)_

_(You like him.)_

Fingers wrap around his wrist in an instant.

Atsumu blinks.

When he whips around, he sees Sakusa peering at him, his eyes wide. Then, he proceeds to observe Sakusa’s hands curled around his bare wrist.

There are no gloves.

_What was I thinking –_

_(You like him.)_

All strength floods out of Atsumu as he stares at Sakusa. Sakusa’s fingers slip from his wrist. Sakusa is pale, his face painted with – Atsumu has no clue. What is he thinking? What is Sakusa thinking? There’s no way for Atsumu to find out.

 _(He’ll know, but I won’t. The moment Sakusa brushes his arm, he’ll notice. And Atsumu won’t. Atsumu won’t know. He’ll never be able to. Sakusa is Gifted, but he isn’t_.)

_He knows._

And he knows that Sakusa knows, because Sakusa stands there, frozen, rigid, wordless.

( _Crash, crash, crash, crash –)_

Atsumu doesn’t ponder further.

He runs.


End file.
